reincarnates from other lives, they returned on the count of dark
countless tries, they are reflections of Italian classes
of flesh-fables, in passing.
a blue colored, up the shirt-down. to. the. socks.
kinda-man waits in the doorway
tied up, barely.
smirking crooked like a baseball player with New
[dirty] Slang.
reciting wanton pants on the ground,
a black nonchalant
could not get through December
without sighing on the back stepped porch.
at his place on the south part of a paned-glass front door
a woman is shutting out the veranda
and he is tucking-in the folds of a new-old dress,
one of every color.
their skins are a hot waxy margarine from summer.
choruses of beautiful women in waiting, petition from behind the walls.
she, "beautiful," he says
turquoise dress, is every creeking noise in his hardwood floors.
she is all of the promises to cross stitch her heart
falling from her breath, with porcelain and bonnets.
her lips are painted in acrylics, poised and taught.
the mapper of her hair he draws plans (like inky tattoos) from her skin.
they’ve been waiting for the silence, it was just a matter of time.
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